The Inner Circle

It was cold and late-well past two in the morning-as Dr. Palmiotti stared at the drop phone that sat on his nightstand.

But as he lay there, wrapped in his down comforter, he knew he wasn’t even close to sleep.

For a while, he tried his usual tricks: visualizing a walk in the wide green stretch of grass in the arboretum behind his college dorm. He didn’t particularly like the outdoors. But he liked the idea of it. And he liked college. And usually, that was enough to do the trick.

Not tonight.

“Baby, you’re gonna be exhausted tomorrow,” Lydia said, rolling toward him as she faded back into her own slumber. “Stop worrying about him. If he needs you, he’ll call.”

He was still amazed to see her do things like that-to read him so clearly… to feel him being awake. He was lucky to have her. She understood him better in six months than his ex-wife did in nearly twenty years. And for a while, he thought about just that-in particular, about their night at the Four Seasons and the thing with the fishnet stockings she had done for his birthday-hoping it would be the key to his sleep.

But once again, the doctor’s thoughts wandered back to his friend, and the message the President had written, and to this nightmare at the Archives-which of course took Palmiotti right back to his nightstand, to the phone with the gold presidential seal on the receiver.

If he needs you, he’ll call.

It was good advice. But the one thing it failed to take into account was just how complex a President’s needs were. In fact, it was those particular needs that caused the Ring to be created in the first place. Both Rings. And while it was bad enough that someone accidentally found the book, if the rest was true, if there was now a third party involved and the original Culper Ring was closing in… In med school, they used to call it CD. It had the same acronym in politics. Certain Death.

Palmiotti stuck his leg out from the comforter, trying to break his sweat. The drop phone would be ringing any minute.

But for the next hour and a half, nothing happened.

Palmiotti was tempted to call the medical unit. From there, the on-duty nurse could confirm that Wallace was upstairs. But Palmiotti knew he was upstairs. At this hour, where else would the President be?

By 4 a.m., the doctor was still tossing and twisting, eyeing the phone and waiting for it to ring. He knew his friend. He knew what had to be going through his head. He knew everything that was now at stake.

The phone had to ring.

But it never did. Not tonight.

And as Dr. Palmiotti stared up at his ceiling, both legs sticking out of his comforter, one hand holding Lydia, it was that merciless silence that worried him most of all.

52

'Why am I in handcuffs?”

“Beecher, did you hear a word I just said?” Dallas asks.

“Why am I in handcuffs!?”

“So you wouldn’t do exactly what you’re doing right now, namely throwing a fit rather than focusing on the big picture,” Dallas shoots back. “Now. For the second time. Did you hear what I said?”

“There are two Culper Rings. I got it. But if you don’t undo these cuffs…”

“Then what? You’ll scream? Go. Scream. See what happens,” he says, motioning at the barely lived-in room.

I take another glance around, still stuck in my seat. I’m not sure I believe there’s really such a thing as a two-hundred-year-old secret spy unit. And even if I did, I’m not sure why they’d ever pick Dallas. But there’s only one way to get answers. “Where are we anyway? What is this place?”

“I’m trying to tell you, Beecher. Now I know you don’t like me. I know you’ve never liked me. But you need to understand two things: First, I want to get you out of here-the longer we keep you out of sight, the more suspicious it looks. Second, I’m on your side here. Okay? We’re all on your side.”

I’m about to unleash, but as my shoulders go numb, I stay locked on the priorities. “Undo the cuffs.”

“And then you’ll listen?”

“I can’t feel my pinkies, Dallas. Undo the cuffs.”

Squatting behind me, he pulls something from his pocket and there’re two loud snaps. As the blood flushes back to my wrists, he tosses the set of clear plasticuffs into the no-longer-empty trash can.

“Here… take this,” he says, reaching for the bookcase and handing me a square cocktail napkin. I didn’t even notice it before-an entire shelf in the bookcase is filled with a high-end selection of rum, vodka, scotch, and the rest. Whatever this room is used for, it clearly requires a good drink.

He pulls a few cubes from a silver ice bucket and drops them in my napkin. “For your chin,” he explains, looking surprised when I don’t say thanks.

“At Clementine’s… to be there,” I say as I put the ice to my chin. “How long were you following?”

“I wasn’t following. I was trying to talk to you-to get you alone. I mean, yesterday in Orlando’s office… this morning when Tot chased me away. Have you really not noticed how often I’ve been showing up?”

“So you gas and cuff me? That’s your solution? Send an email next time! Or wait… just call! It’s a lot less headache!”

Shaking his head, Dallas takes a seat on the leather sofa. “You really don’t understand how this works, do you? Face-to-face-that’s the only reason it’s lasted. The problem is, every time I get near you, you’re running off with your little group, and no offense, but… your high school first kiss? That’s who you’re trusting your life to?”

“I’m not trusting my life to her.”

“You are, Beecher. You don’t think you are, but you are. What you found in that SCIF-that was a miracle that happened-a true gift from God that you stumbled upon.” I watch him carefully as he says the words. He’s the only person besides Tot and Clemmi to even guess how this all started, which brings a strange reassurance that makes me think he’s telling the truth. “But I promise you this,” Dallas continues, “if you don’t start being careful-when they confirm you have it-they’ll put you in the ground even faster than Orlando. That’s not just hyperbole, Beecher. That’s math.”

The ice on my chin sends a waterslide of cold down my Adam’s apple and into the neck of my shirt. I barely feel it. “You keep saying they. Is that who you saw following me?”

“I couldn’t see who they were. I think they spotted me first.”

“Y’mean the car that almost turned down the block?”

“That wasn’t just a car. It was a taxi. A D.C. taxi. Out that far in Virginia. Real hell of a commute, don’t you think-unless that’s your only choice because someone borrowed your car.”

Omigod. The Mustang. “Is Tot’s car…!?”

“His car is fine. We had it driven here, then sent a text from your phone saying you’d pick him up tomorrow. He didn’t reply. You see what I’m getting at?”

I know exactly what he’s getting at. “You think it was Tot in that taxi.”

“I have no idea who it was, but I do know this: There’s no way the President is pulling this off without help from someone inside our building.”

The napkin filled with ice sends a second waterslide down the inside of my wrist, to my elbow. Orlando said it. Clemmi said it. Even I said it. But to hear those words-the President-not the president of some useless company-the President of the United States. This isn’t just confirmation that the message in that dictionary was meant for Orson Wallace. It’s confirmation that when it comes to my life-I can’t even think about it.

“Tell me what the Culper Ring really is,” I demand.

“The true Culper Ring?”

“The one that did this. The one the President’s in.”

“The President’s in both.”